Shifting Generations

My family made the “over the river and through the woods” journey this past weekend to grandmother’s house, this time for the grilled hot dogs of Labor Day rather than the turkey feast of late November. While it was a chance to get away for a few days, the weekend also dared me to consider the passing of time, symbolic of the changing of the generational guard.

The signs seemed obvious to me. My youngest son brought The Girlfriend to the unofficial family reunion, while my oldest son, daughter-in-law, and the lovely Madelyn Simone were welcomed into the newly purchased house of my niece, who has recently returned to her hometown to become a first-time homeowner. Watching the cousins horse around in the pool, my mind flashed back to the days when my boys were flailing away on top of the chicken fights instead of taking the bottom assignment.

It feels odd to me, this generational shift, but not unwelcome. I like the image writer Annie Dillard extends to us: “Ours is a planet sown in beings. Our generations overlap like shingles.” I’m caught in the overlap, still the daughter to my mother, but also the parent to my sons and a blessed grandmother as well. Yes, the family dynamics are shifting,

A shifting of the generations also requires us to embrace loss. When we brought out the cake and homemade ice cream, a Streeter family tradition for summertime gatherings, the standard question was raised: OK, who has the next birthday? With a bit of hesitation, someone said, Pops. Yes, my dad was born on September 1, 1923, and our Labor Day gathering always included a chorus of Happy Birthday for my father.

He’s been gone nine years now, yet for a moment I expected to see him in his familiar chair at the dinner table, tipping up a bottle of home-brewed root beer. He loved his kids and grandkids dearly, and he would be so impressed with the progress ten-year-old Lucas is making with his clarinet, and would certainly be smitten with the charm of Madelyn, his first, and so far the only great-grandchild. I’m even guessing that Dad would have given in and played Monopoly the first time eight-year-old Noah asked. That’s who my dad was.

Though it’s been a number of years since Dad’s death, my visit to the proverbial homestead left me yearning for what Mitch Albom described in “For One More Day:” “Have you ever lost someone you love and wanted one more conversation, one more chance to make up for the time when you thought they would be here forever? If so, then you know you can go your whole life collecting days, and none will outweigh the one you wish you had back.”

And yet in the midst of these pointed reminders of loss and the shifting sands of the generations, the joyful connections remain. The playful soccer game on the front lawn, the laughter in the pool, the ever-creative story-telling, all speak to the expansiveness of family. It’s times like these that cause us to say, “It’s good to be together.”

We expect to face the existential questions of life in the pale light of the stained glass windows, in the philosophy classroom, or on a solitary retreat. Yet just as often, loss, love and light come our way in the everyday, when we pause to recognize the tap on our shoulder or the wink of an eye.

I’m at risk of waxing poetic just now, so I’ll let the words of James Baldwin finish my thoughts today: “For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.” Amen.

A Passing Whisper of Wisdom

When news of the death of Martha Jorden reached me last Saturday, I was struck by a sense of loss that seemed disproportionate to my actual relationship with her. We'd met a few times, and there did seem to be a spark of connection between us, but we'd never lingered over a cup of coffee, we never rode motorcycles or horses together, and we never sat side-by-side at the bedside of a dying friend. She was on my short list of women in Ashland whom I want to get to know better, and I figured that one day, we'd make that happen. After all, we shared a number of interests and some mutual friends, and it would just be a matter of time before we'd find the time to come together. Yet with her death at age 64, it is not to be.

What I know about Martha is that her life has been about coming alongside. Whether in her work at Hospice North Central Ohio, in the counseling office she shared with her beloved husband John, or at the dinner table with friends, Martha turned "coming alongside" into an art form. Regular readers of the Ashland Times-Gazette can attest to this. While each week's Mental Health Matters column often provided factual information about issues like suicide, depression, grief, child abuse and more, Martha had a way of coming alongside even through the ink on the newsprint.

I turned to those words, grateful for the on-line archives of the newspaper that can supplement the columns I've stashed in my files over the last few years. So allow me to let the voice of Martha Jorden come alongside us for a few more moments this morning.

"Remember to be kind to yourself. Learning new ways of taking care of yourself takes time, perseverance and a good sense of humor to help lighten the challenges of change."

"Courage," said Martha, "is the part of our heart that speaks to those around us when hope is silent."

And then on grief: "Grief is not a problem to be solved, but a journey to be lived. We can either join in the journey or fight against it. We do not need to protect others from their grief. Rather, let us be present and love those we care about - and be gentle with their hearts."

And who can forget the mantra that ran in nearly every column: 'It is always OK to ask for help."

In words submitted the day before her death, Martha chose a story from a collection entitled "Everyday Greatness." After recounting the conscious decision of a man to be a loving father and husband while on vacation - "no ifs ands or buts," Martha wrote this to all of us: 'Long-term relationships take commitment and work. We make choices every day about our relationships - it truly is our decision to look for the best in each other, to take risks to grow, to change and to make room for differences." She then shared a final line from that account: Anderson (the husband) said, "I made a new vow to keep on remembering to choose love.""Yes," said Martha, "you can, too."

In June, Martha shared from the artist Flavia Weedn, quoting these words: "Some people come into our lives and leave footprints on our hearts and we are never ever the same. . . They help us become aware of the delicate winds of hope . . . and we discover within every human spirit there are wings yearning to fly. Some people awaken us to new and deeper realizations . . . for we gain insight from the passing whisper of their wisdom. "

This week, there are footprints on the heart of our community, along with an empty place at the table. We have gained insight and faith from the passing whisper of Martha's wisdom that will live on in the resiliency, courage and love she modeled as she came alongside the people of Ashland. She taught us to love deeply, and to grieve deeply. Blessed be Martha.

 

The Day After: Now What

Now that the elections of 2012 are over, I find myself wondering, what happens on the day after for those whose hopes of leadership were dashed? Did Mitt and Ann stay in bed until noon on Wednesday, ordering room service and watching cartoons? I wonder how long it took for them to have The Conversation, to sit at the breakfast table, look into each other’s eyes, and ask, ”now what?” The question is huge for the Romneys. After months and years of relentless campaigning, is there a sense of relief for them that it’s finally over? Can they somehow be themselves instead of whoever the spinmeisters tell them to be?

Most of us have never run for political office, but we’ve been in a similar place.  The long and painful death, followed by the rituals of the wake and funeral. Then one morning the doorbell rings and it’s the delivery person to pick up the hospital bed from the corner of the living room. It’s over. We look at each other and say, “what now?”

The daily commute for the job we’ve loved (or hated) for 20, 30, 40 years. Now a plant closing, a pink slip or mandatory retirement has robbed us of our identity, of our livelihood. Now what? What can we do? What should we do?

Sometimes the “now what” question comes not from a sense of loss but with a sense of expectation. Thirty-seven years ago, Larry and I were newly married and had just arrived home from our honeymoon, when Larry’s dad gave him some counsel about marriage from his own wealth of experience. “Now, be sure to have JoAnn get up each morning and fix you breakfast.” I actually did wake up early on that first morning home, and may even have scrambled some eggs for Larry. But as my memory recalls the scenario, I turned from the stove and said to him, “If you think I’m going to do this every day for the rest of my life, think again.” Unlike our favorite United Way director, there’s no oatmeal for Larry on a chilly morning.

Now what? While in some situations it’s a question tinged with sorrow, there may be an unspoken sense of relief and anticipation, even with loss. I’m not sure that we’ll hear the Romneys say it out loud, but there does come a time when we trade one dream for another and get on with life. What an opportunity they have to make a difference, even if not in the White House.

Look at Jimmy Carter, now age 88, with his support for Habitat for Humanity and his work for peace in the Middle East.  Remember Dan Quayle? I had to turn to Google to get the scoop on James Danforth Quayle, 44^th vice president of the United States, but since losing the re-election campaign in 1992, he’s written The American Family: Discovering the Values That Make Us Strong, redeeming his Murphy Brown comment that took some flack during the campaign.  And Al Gore? The young man whose desire at age 18 was to one day write novels has won the Nobel Peace Prize for his advocacy in the area of climate change.

Loss – even on such a public stage – does not mean the end.  Nor does it mean the end on our own private stages. Bell Hooks, writing in All About Love, reminds us: “Contrary to what we may have been taught to think, unnecessary and unchosen suffering wounds us but need not scar us for life. It does mark us. What we allow the mark of our suffering to become is in our own hands.”

Yes, Mr. Romney, as you noted in your concession speech, you left everything on the field. You gave your all to the campaign. And, regardless of political affiliation, we salute you for your dedication to America. So what now? Here’s my advice to Ann and Mitt from my four-month foray into a change of life-direction. Get some rest. Spend time with those 18 grandchildren. And then, as Frederick Buechner reminds us, follow your heart to the place where your deep gladness meets the world’s deep need.